


Charitable

by faeleverte



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Buttplugs, Dirty Talk, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Riding, Suit Porn, mild d/s tone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bulk of Clint’s <i>wanting</i> did <i>not</i> involve movie stars, celebrity chefs, or that one opera singer. His plans for the night and most of his attention were focused on one intentionally unknown man with a forgettable demeanor and a well-tailored suit. </p><p>Well, and the plug up his ass. <i>That</i> was becoming increasingly hard to ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charitable

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this photo](http://ladyserafina.tumblr.com/post/88830365571), rum, and someone needing a story to cheer them up. I'm not actually even a little bit sorry.

“Hey, Hawkeye, pics are done!” The guy from that one movie about that World War I spy dude leaned around the end of the lockers. “You can ditch the suit. You _are_ coming out drinking with us, aren’t you?”

It sounded like fun, it really did! But Clint had plans already. Only a very small part of him wanted to hang out with the movie stars from his ( _Winning, thank you very much!_ SoccerAid team. It was kinda cool to get a chance to play at being a celebrity for a change. His former job with SHIELD had required that he keep his head down and stay in the shadows. His _current_ gig with the Avengers gave him a certain amount of celebrity, but people rarely stood around cheering when the Avengers showed up; mostly they were too busy ducking and running for cover. 

The bulk of Clint’s _wanting_ did _not_ involve movie stars, celebrity chefs, or that one opera singer. His plans for the night and most of his attention were focused on one intentionally unknown man with a forgettable demeanor and a well-tailored suit. 

Well, and the plug up his ass. _That_ was becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

****The Night Before****

“Shh! Shhh, babe! Just lie back and relax.” Phil’s voice soothed over Clint’s skin, as warm and calming as the way his gun-calloused hands traced broad paths over Clint’s chest and stomach. “Don’t want you pulling something before tomorrow. Want you at your best.”

Phil punctuated his words with a lazy ripple of his hips. Clint panted up at him, blinking sweat out of his eyes to watch the way Phil sat, loose-limbed and gorgeous, fucking himself idly on Clint as if he was nothing more than a semi-sentient sex toy. Phil rolled his pelvis in a deep circle, letting his eyes close as the angle struck him just right, letting his head drop back and groaning hard.

Clint sure as hell _felt_ just semi-sentient, at best. He was losing his mind, trying to stay loose and relaxed, to not fight the restraints that held him spread-eagle against the mattress. It’d been _weeks_ since the last time Phil had gotten a weekend away from that damned high school where he was playing undercover principal, weeks since they’d seen each other, weeks since Clint had this: the tight heat of Phil wrapped around him, pulling him slowly but inexorably toward orgasm. But school was finally over for the year, and Phil had gotten to escape New York City just in time to meet Clint in Manchester. 

Clint moaned and thrashed his head against the pillow, trying to leave his body relaxed, to avoid straining anything that would affect his performance the next day. It was only a charity thing, this soccer match. No big deal about who won and who lost. But Clint didn’t want to embarrass himself. Didn’t want to look like some poor kid from middle America who didn’t touch a soccer ball before his twentieth birthday.

Even if that’s what he really was. 

Above him, Phil laughed, a sharp bark like he’d read Clint’s mind. Probably had, being Phil. He’d always known Clint better than anyone, could see every thought in Clint’s face and his eyes and the way he held his shoulders. Clint moaned again, hips straining up once against his will, and Phil, the cruel bastard stopped moving.

“I know you can do this, Clint.” He leaned forward to press a quick kiss to Clint’s panting mouth, tender and gentle. “I know you can listen and follow orders. I know you can do what I ask of you.”

Clint blinked away more sweat and tried to smile. “Anything f’you, Phil,” he slurred. He licked his lips as Phil sat up and did another of those slow rotate-grind-rock things with his hips.

“Of course you can, babe.” Phil rubbed his thumb over one of Clint’s eyebrows, chasing away a drop of perspiration. Clint sighed happily and let himself sink deeper against the bed. He’d have been okay, too, if Phil hadn’t kept talking.

“You’re going to be gorgeous tomorrow. Those flimsy little white shorts straining over your perfect ass out there. The swell of your chest and shoulders filling out that jersey. And blue. So beautiful with your eyes.”

Clint wanted to buck up into the tight, hot, perfect heat of Phil so _goddamned badly_ , but he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, keeping himself calm. 

Phil gave another of those languid rolls with his hips, head falling back and groaning in time with Clint’s growl of pleasure as he hit an angle that sent sparks through both of them.

“Fuck, Clint. Fuck! It’s going to be so hard to stay in my seat.” Phil leaned forward to grip tightly at Clint’s shoulders, fingers digging in harder as he as he began to rock more up and down, less back and forth. “All I’ll be able to think about is launching myself over that wall, shoving you down, baring your ass right there in the stadium.”

Clint whimpered and started to tremble, hands clenching uselessly in the air where they lay on the pillow above his head, held in place by two of Phil’s ties. 

“I’d fuck you right there, you know.” Phil licked his lips, pupils so wide that the blue of his irises had become only thin, grey stripes. “Stake my claim in front of everyone there, everyone watching on television back home. Fuck you until you were screaming my name and the whole damned world knows who you belong to.”

“Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!” Clint couldn’t stop his hips from bucking upward, just once, and Phil let out a sharp, wordless shout, his cock twitching hard as he clenched around Clint’s.

“Wish I could be the one to peel that uniform off you at the end of the match. Run my fingers over the sweat on your skin, chase the tracks of it down your chest, your ribs, your hips–” he tracked the path with his fingers as he spoke– “with my tongue.”

Clint fought for breath, trying to keep his toes from clenching. His legs had been secured to the footboard with just one of Phil’s ties, legs tied together after Phil had carefully lifted Clint’s balls free and pressed his thighs together. Until Phil had climbed on top of him, Clint had felt very _exposed_ , unable to move with all his tender bits perched on top, on display.

“I know I can’t, though.” Phil slowed down, and Clint wanted to shout at him to get a move on. He wanted to untie himself and pin Phil to the bed. Wanted to roll Phil up into a tight little ball, that incredibly plush ass in the air, and just fuck him to their mutual satisfaction. 

He did none of that, however, letting Phil keep control of the situation. This time, anyway.

"There are team pictures to be taken, win or lose." Phil fucked himself languidly, as if he'd be content to take all night. Clint whimpered again. "So you'll be back in your suit before I see you again, your tie around your neck, shirt straining over your chest, biceps filling out that jacket until it looks like you'll pop the seams if you so much as wave."

Phil sighed and flicked at both of Clint's nipples with his thumbnails. Clint growled, hissed, and tugged against the tie that held his left hand for just a second before he subsided.

"So you're going to leave that suit on," Phil continued, too conversational for the situation. Clint considered untangling a limb or four and just _taking_ what he wanted, turning Phil into a quivering mess like he knew he could. Phil shifted his knees and rocked down a little harder on the next thrust, and Clint decided he could wait it out.

Even if it killed him.

“You’re going to wear it back to this hotel, to this room,” Phil rolled his hips, grinding down.” And you’re going to let me tear it off of you.” He gave another casual rock with his pelvis. “With my teeth,” he added decisively, and Clint let out another undignified whimper.

“But that’s not all you’re going to be wearing.”

Clint shivered and pulled at all his bindings again, both excited by and dreading the gleeful note in Phil’s voice. Phil smiled, a sharp, feral kind of grin, and began to fuck himself more firmly on Clint. He braced his hands against Clint’s heaving ribs, fingers slipping in the sweat. 

“When you’re in the shower, before you button yourself back into respectability, you’re going to lube your ass up, get it nice and loose and slick, and you’re going to put in one of those plugs we brought with us.” Phil rocked back harder still, and Clint shouted, squeezing his eyes shut when Phil did it again. And again.

“The blue, I think.” Phil shivered above him, and Clint’s eyes snapped back open to watch the red flush spreading down Phil’s face, across his broad shoulders and down the expanse of his powerful chest. “To match your uniform.”

Speaking was a struggle, but Clint tried to squeeze the words out anyway.

“Don’t...Don’t like the blue...the blue one.” He gasped and panted, sucking in air that punched back out of him each time Phil seated himself, burying Clint deep in the heat of his incredible ass. “Too small. Too long. Hits my– Oh god, just like that! Fuck! Fuck! You’re so fucking tight!”

“What was that about the plug?” Phil tried to keep using his reasonable voice, but his breath was becoming ragged around the edges. 

“Bumps my prostate every damn time I move.” Clint started the thought but couldn’t get further for several more hard presses of Phil’s ass to his groin. He sucked in a breath and tried again. “‘ts too thin. Doesn’t...doesn’t fill me up. Just makes me want more. Want _you_.”

“Oh you’ll get me.” Phil’s voice had deepened by an octave. “As soon as I’ve gotten you out of that suit. I’ll slide that damn thing out and the next thing you’ll feel is me, stretching you open. Filling you up. You’ll get everything, Clint.”

Phil reached down to cup the side of Clint’s face, his free hand sliding down to stroke himself as he began to work his hips faster. The next several minutes stretched and spread, and Clint felt his stomach begin to flex, wanting to push Phil further, take him over.

“So close, babe,” Phil murmured, closing his own eyes. “Time to come.”

Clint would never know how he managed to keep his body loose after that, but he felt himself melt into the bed as his own orgasm washed through him. Phil growled above him, and Clint felt something hot and wet streak across his stomach and chest as Phil clenched around him, pressure to the point of pain. After one long moment of rigidity, Phil slowly crumpled forward to land, panting, on Clint’s chest.

“Suit’s staying on,” Clint mumbled into Phil’s hair when he could feel his lips again. “No problem at all.”

Phil laughed into Clint’s neck, delighted and tired, before he pushed himself to his hands and knees to begin untying his ties from around Clint’s limbs.

****Back in the locker room****

Clint climbed up on the bench behind the rest of his team as they posed for the less formal pictures, laughing at his half-naked teammates and their celebration antics. The climbing up was blissful torture, and Clint fought the urge to rock his hips back against the wall, wanting both more friction and less. He hoped this was the last goddamned picture. Sure they’d won. Go, team. 

Two more minutes and he was leaving, done or not.

He raised his fist in the air, hoping to look more victorious and less pained, trying to force a smile for the camera.

“Excuse me,” said a warm, familiar voice from the door to the locker room. “Agen– _Hawkeye_ is urgently needed.”

Clint nearly strained something jumping down, hissing at the jolt in his ass and freezing for one long breath as his teammates all slapped his back and shoulders. He waved casually from the doorframe, and then sagged as Phil looped an arm around his shoulders to lead him out to the waiting car. 

“Phil,” Clint whispered, leaning into Phil’s side as he was led around to the passenger door. “Does this car have a siren?”

“That’s why I insisted on _this_ one, babe.” Phil pushed him against the side of the car and kissed him, warm and slow and full of suggestion, before he tucked Clint into the passenger seat. He shut the door and walked around to slide into the other side, starting the engine and pulling away smoothly. Clint closed his eyes, melting down into the seat and letting the movement of the car sent jolts of pleasure through him as it screamed through the night, hurrying them both to keep promises made.

 

****The End****

**Author's Note:**

> This has been knocking around in my WIP folder for entirely too long. I found the motivation to get it together, get it written, and get it up when [Laura Kaye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye) suggested this little collection of happy fics for my Always OTP. 
> 
> Go on, read the rules and join the Happy Little C/C Fic Fest!
> 
> [Kathar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar) is following close on my heels to bring us the continuing saga of [Washed Ashore](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1831450/chapters/3933808) Clint and Phil and their darling Chikenistas!


End file.
